Month: May 2015

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A Picture to Remember by Nicholas

Picture this. Jamie and I are decked out in our tuxedos with purple silk bow ties and purple cummerbund, standing near to each other—he a head taller than me. We have boutonnieres of white carnations in our lapels and we are smiling. We look like two grooms because we are two grooms, celebrating our wedding in 2008.

Now, picture this. We are in a hospital room. Jamie, in a hospital gown, is in bed and has a nasal-gastric tube in his nose. I’m standing next to him wearing a polo shirt and khaki slacks. The minister who officiated at our ceremony is signing our marriage license as our witnesses—my sister, Jamie’s sister-in-law, my nephew, and Jamie’s mom—watch. Just married. Our smiles are trying to make the best of a bad situation.

Which picture is true? Which picture do we really remember? The answer is: both. We have the official picture of our wedding, as it was supposed to have happened. And we have the actual picture of our wedding, as it did happen in Stanford University Hospital. The official photo, which is actually from a reception we held months later, sits proudly on our mantel. The other rests indelibly in our memories of that August day in 2008 when the grand celebration we’d planned all summer turned into a desperate rush to the nearest ER. It sits in a box on a closet shelf.

Early on the morning of our wedding day, Jamie complained of a stomach ache that seemed more than a case of wedding day nerves. At 6 a.m., we went to the Emergency Room at Stanford Hospital where doctors quickly diagnosed that they didn’t know exactly what was going on but Jamie had to stay in the hospital until they could figure it out. Sorry, said the doctors, no wedding that day.

Then someone, I don’t recall who, asked about having our wedding in the hospital. The docs were surprised but said, sure, if the nurses were OK with it. The nurses were thrilled to have a wedding in their hospital and they set about making Jamie look presentable.

We hastily arranged for just family to squeeze into Stanford’s tiny chapel where we recited our vows and were pronounced married. The reception with catered dinner and fancy cake with two grooms on top went on as scheduled since we had 80 people gathered—some travelling from far away—to help us celebrate this momentous day. Jamie, of course, had to remain in the hospital while I, so tired I could hardly think, had to play host—alone. Yes, I received countless good wishes that day but I barely remember that.

A few days later, Jamie was operated on to relieve a bowel obstruction and began a long, slow recovery that kept us both in California for over a month but not for the honeymoon we’d planned.

So, we have our pictures—the one we happily remember and the one we can’t forget.

© March 2015

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Homophobia Hell by Gillian

I used that title because I firmly believe that homophobes inhabit a Hell on Earth. They are consumed by anger and hatred, all driven by fear. They fear a wrathful God. They fear the unknown. And, perhaps the greatest, they fear that deeply-hidden part of themselves which they absolutely dare not acknowledge.

It must be nothing short of terrifying to be a Fundamentalist Christian. (Or probably any kind of Fundamentalist but that’s another discussion.) If I truly believe that every word of The Bible is true, and my church tells me that according to that Good Book, homosexuality is a sin, you’d better believe I’m going to condemn it. With that Vengeful God watching my every move, waiting to pounce on my slightest miss-step and fling me into the Fiery Furnace for Eternity, what else would I do? It’s easy to poke fun at such extreme beliefs, but I sincerely am not. I cannot imagine living in that kind of fear every day of my life. We cannot save them. It is impossible to have any logical discussion with someone who’s answer to every question or comment is, it says so in The Bible. I would like to save them from their life of fear, but I cannot, any more than they can save me from my life of sin. I don’t hate them for all that they rail against us. To return their words to them – I hate the sin, but not the sinner.

No phobias are rational, that is their very essence. I have been, from as far back as I can remember, an arachnophobe. I hate to deprive any living creature of life, but I had flattened every poor innocent spider I ever encountered with great energy and little compunction. Then, many years ago, I was ill for quite some time after being bitten by a Brown Recluse which I never even saw. I had to laugh at the irony. But the result was surprising. No, it didn’t cure me of my spider-frights, but it did decrease their strength and hold over me. I still call to Betsy to deal with any I find in the house, but reasonably calmly; not curled in a gibbering heap on the chair.

I suppose that is what encountering the object of our phobias does. That is what exposure therapists would have us believe, anyway, though I don’t see myself hugging a tarantula any time soon.

Not so long ago, most people didn’t know anyone Gay; or didn’t know they did. Most Straights feared us because they didn’t know us. We were just these weirdos out there they didn’t understand and sure as hell didn’t want to. Then those closet doors started creaking open.

At first it was oh well, yeah, Jimmy’s OK. It’s the rest of ’em.

Then the rest of ’em came out. It wasn’t just your nephew. It was your high school sweetheart and your best friend from college and your neighbor down the street. And you know what? Surprise, surprise! They live very much like we do.

Homophobia began to dissipate.

But it hung on.

Most of us remember the battle over Amendment 2.

Everything was going fine. It had little support. Then, suddenly, in the last two weeks of the campaign, the ad. blitz was on. I can see those ads as clearly as if they were on a TV in front of me right now.

Picture it.

A serene, middle aged, white woman appears on the screen; middle America’s perfect mother. She smiles slightly as she looks into the camera. She speaks in a gentle tone with a well-modulated voice.

“Of course I don’t hate homosexuals!” she says, implying something close to horror at the very thought. “I have nothing at all against them,” with complete sincerity.

She leans in towards the camera a little, a slightly worried look appears on her face.

“But special rights,” and she shakes her head sadly, regretfully. “That’s just going too far.”

God, they were good, those ads. I was almost talked into voting for Amendment 2 myself. They were so reasonable. So sorry that they just couldn’t go that far for us; much as they’d like to, they implied. This attack-ad fest turned the campaign around and the amendment passed.

There’s an interesting article in the online archives of publiceye.org, part of which details this buildup of frenzy around Amendment 2. For the sake of history, I am glad it is so well documented, but I find myself at odds with it’s title, Constructing Homophobia. Much as the opposition tried, I don’t believe that is actually what they succeeded in doing. Via misinformation, manipulation, and downright lies, enough people were convinced that a no vote equalled a vote granting homosexuals in Colorado special, rather than equal, rights. It was that which changed the minds of many otherwise accepting, middle-of-the-road, voters. And my bet is that many of the same people who voted for Amendment 2 are now greeting the State’s legal acceptance of gay marriage with equanimity.

Try as they might, those real homophobes, too many people just don’t care. Young people, especially, just don’t get it. What’s the big deal?

So who are they, these real homophobes? The ones who lead the campaigns against us? Some are those truly led, or misled, by religion, some possibly still fall into the category of fear of the unknown. But most, I believe, are those who are terrified by what they feel within themselves.

In recent years, Ted Haggard, the evangelical leader who preached endlessly and fervently against homosexuality, resigned after a scandal involving a former male prostitute. Larry Craig, a United States senator who opposed including sexual orientation in hate-crime legislation, was arrested on a charge of lewd conduct in a men’s bathroom. Glenn Murphy Jr., a leader of the Young Republican National Convention and vocal opponent of same-sex marriage, was accused of sexually assaulting another man. Haggard himself actually said,

“I think I was partially so vehement because of my own war.”

A New York Times article from 2012, actually entitled, Homophobic? Maybe You’re Gay,* cites an April 2012 issue of the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology in which researchers claim to provide empirical evidence that homophobia can result from the suppression of same-sex desire.

Given my original premise, that homophobia is driven by essentially three basic types of fear, I see strong reason for hope that it is rapidly decreasing, as those fears dissipate. But let’s not fool ourselves. It will never go away. Even if it becomes politically incorrect and lies largely dormant, it will remain a smoldering coal to be re-ignited at the slightest breeze. Prejudices live on. We have seen, recently, the fanning of the flames, in the attacks, both physical and political, on people of color. No minority group can ever rest on it’s laurels of equality gained; rather we must live a life of collective eternal vigilance. We need to maintain positive images of ourselves in the public eye; and I have a plan!

Did you know that we are awash with National Days? In the first week of January alone, we had sixteen of them, not even counting New Year’s Day. And I bet you missed them all. Today, by the way, is National Pharmacist Day, National Curried Chicken Day and National Marzipan Day.

Who knew? Tomorrow, incredibly, (honest, I’m not making this stuff up,) is National Rubber Duckie Day. And January 31st is national Backward Day, so be careful out there. The whole crazy thing has even gone international. For example, January 17th is International Hug a Tree Day, so get it on your calendars.

Now, hugging is very in, these days. And we of the GLBT community are so very huggable. So I think we need a National – oh what the Hell, let’s think big – International Hug a Gay Day. I can see bumperstickers (which we found out last week we all love so much) saying,

HAVE YOU HUGGED A GAY TODAY?

I was really getting into this idea when my thoughts got crazy, as in, we could even have a National Hug a Homophobe Day, so I had to stop. In the words of that Amendment 2 ad., that’s just going too far!

* http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/29/opinion/sunday/homophobic-maybe-youre-gay.html?

© January 2015

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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ABCs of Life by Betsy

A FEW THINGS I HAVE LEARNED IN MY OLD AGE

Respect your elders–even ‘though they may become fewer and fewer in number left on this earth.

Take care of your body–no new models are available.

Make friends with and understand your ego. When it is out of control you will need to counsel it and put it in your pocket.

Take your medicine everyday and know what it is and why you are taking it.

Exercise every day.

Learn something new every day.

Think, think, think—everyday.

Never stop seeking adventure. Never stop dreaming.

Take a nap everyday even if it’s only a two minute one.

Listen–listen to the birds, listen to the wind, listen to your children–even after they have become adults.

Measure your worth and accomplishments according to your own values–not those of others.

© 2 April 2012

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Reputation by Will Stanton

I really was in the mood to prepare something more unusual and more interesting than just a run-of-the-mill story; but for a long time, the suggested topic “Reputation” did not inspire me. Naturally at first, I tried to think of a person whose reputation is remarkable. One came to mind, but I already have written about him.

On the other side of the coin and as occurs far too often, reputations are inflated, misleading, or even false. Quite often, a person’s reputation largely is the result of his “blowing his own horn,” in a sense, marketing himself. In contrast, those of us who, by nature or breeding, learned not to impose our own impressions of ourselves upon others suffer a lack of recognition and reward. Our accomplishments even may be met with skepticism because they are not widely known. My not settling upon any particular person, good or bad, I abandoned the thought of writing about a person.

Of course, the idea of reputation may apply to whole organizations, such as the I.R.S. or political organizations such as those financially supported by the Koch brothers, but I did not wish to upset my stomach and rejected them as a subject. Then, it occurred to me that reputation, good or bad, can apply to locations as well.

That’s when I decided to prepare something a little more amusing, writing about the abandoned Moonville railroad tunnel and all the wild rumors about it. Over the years, I have taken several rail-fan friends there to see it. The idea to write about it was sparked when I was doing a Google-search for railroad history near my home-town, and I stumbled upon an astonishing number of videos and websites devoted to supposed ghostly apparitions associated with the tunnel. This widespread reputation keeps growing. All one needs to do is talk to any person residing in the general area of the tunnel or just look on Google or YouTube for stories, pictures, and videos.

The ironic, but not surprising, reputation of the Moonville tunnel has nothing to do with reality or the utilitarian purpose of its construction but, rather, the generations of people who have imposed their fantasies upon the tunnel. Apparently, a large portion of the human population is prone to eagerly embrace such fantasies and escalate their spread.

Here is the factual history of the tunnel. Early in the nineteenth century, people living and working in southern Ohio decided that they needed a railroad to ship coal and iron, to take goods and produce to market, and to more conveniently move passengers. The construction of the Marietta and Ohio Railroad began in 1845. By 1856, the line had reached into the wilds of the isolated Zaleski Forest, named after a Polish count who had been persuaded to invest in the railroad with the hope of profiting from the coal reserves lying in the area. Vinton County remains as the most heavily forested and least populated county in Ohio. More memorable for me is the fact that the area surrounding Moonville is rather desolate, gloomy, inhospitable, and can be reached only by circuitous gravel roads through the forest. That alone can contribute to a person’s developing strange feelings about Moonville.

The tiny village of Moonville was built to house railroad-construction workers, miners, and those forging artillery pieces at nearby Hope Furnace for the Union army. The village consisted of a small row of clapboard houses, a general store, saloon, a saw mill along Raccoon Creek, and a cemetery atop the high ridge just to the east. At its peak in 1876, Moonville housed only around one hundred people. By 1947, the last family left, and the remaining structures crumbled into nothing. Only a few sandstone foundation stones remain.

It was that high ridge that obstructed the railroad without its having to be diverted in a large loop along Raccoon Creek to the other side. So, a tunnel was dug out and lined with brick. Above each portal, protruding bricks proudly spelled the name “Moonville.”

By 1887, the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad had crossed into Ohio, and they bought the Marietta and Cincinnati, using it as the main southwestern line from Washington to Cincinnati and St. Louis. In the later 20th century, in addition to freight-train traffic, Amtrak leased the rights to run passenger trains on the line. The one time in the early ’80s that I decided to go to Athens by train turned out to be the very last run of the Amtrak “Shenandoah” on the southwest line and through the Moonville Tunnel.

 The final owner, CSX Corporation, tired of maintaining that mainline through the low and isolated Zaleski Forest and cleaning up train wrecks such as the coal train that I saw tipped over right at the eastern portal. They abandoned the line by 1988 and pulled up the track, ties, and the short bridge near the west portal. I was surprised that CSX, out of any over-concern about potential injury and liability, did not close the tunnel by blowing up the portals. Instead, a portion of the line has been turned from rails into trails, allowing people to hike through the tunnel.

Because of Moonville’s isolated and unusual setting, tales of hauntings around the tunnel began as early as the 1890s. I suppose that it’s human nature to imagine experiencing paranormal phenomena and to weave tales about what they supposedly saw. Usually, such tales surround tragic events and deaths. There certainly were some incidents over 150 years, although such things can happen anywhere. It’s just that Moonville Tunnel makes for such an appropriate setting.

During the 19th century, the job of railroad brakeman was one of the most dangerous jobs known. Sure enough in 1859, a brakeman fell off a train near Moonville and was run over.

Over the years, local people often avoided the winding roads and made a habit of walking the rails, taking a shortcut through the tunnel, or hopping freights for a more direct route to Moonville. In 1866, a ten-year-old girl was walking on the small bridge near the west portal and was hit by a train. In 1876, thirteen-year-old Henry Sharkey hopped a freight, tried to jump off near Moonville, and was run over. In 1880, James Hood road a freight train from Athens to Moonville, jumped off, but smacked his head on a post. Mrs. Patrick Shay was trying to cross that same bridge in 1905 and was killed by a locomotive. Allen Albaugh hopped a freight in 1907 and fell off near the tunnel. Coal-miner Rastus Dexter took a shortcut through the tunnel in 1920 but did not make it to the other end. As recently as 1986, a girl scout on a hike tried to beat a train across the bridge.

There were a few other kinds of deaths, too. David Keeton was murdered along side the tracks in 1886, and another man was murdered in the Moonville Tavern in 1936.

But it was the 1880 head-on train crash that has sparked the most tales over the years. The tales spun around this incident grew to the point that someone even wrote a folk ballad about it. Starting with westbound train No. 99 in 1895 and for generations afterwards, locals told tales of a ghostly railroad man with a lantern trying to stop approaching trains near the tunnel. Rumor has it that this occurred so often that engineers were instructed to ignore such visions in the area of Moonville.

What amazes and amuses me is that the current generation of teenagers, college students, and locals, have not only perpetuated the tales surrounding Moonville Tunnel but actually have increased their number. Clusters of kids make the long trek through the Zaleski Forest to experience, what they hope to be, ghostly encounters. So called “ghost clubs” have sprung up, and whole groups come out to the tunnel, sometimes even at night, bringing their cameras and sound equipment. Often, they do convince themselves that they have witnessed something strange. A college student swore in 1993 that he actually saw a swinging lantern in the tunnel. Then these young ghost-hunters, fascinated with their experiences, upload their stories, pictures, and videos onto the web.

The unfortunate result of all this attention to the Moonville Tunnel and its reputation is that many kids have felt the urge to spray-paint graffiti throughout the tunnel and over the bricks forming the name on each portal. Fortunately, the cemetery on the hill above the tunnel has been left alone. Mother Nature has not been so crass as the kids have been, but she has contributed to the decay of the area around the tunnel. Within a few short years, new trees and shrubs have crowded in on either side of the railroad right-of-way, and soil has crumbled down upon the path.

Moonville is a perfect example of reputation based upon people’s perception and imagination rather than more prosaic facts. It also is a good example of how such a reputation can grow and spread. Once this happens, people are less interested in hearing facts, especially when the facts are far less exciting than the myths. After all, the Moonville myths are so much more fun.


© 9 October 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Sorry, I’m Allergic by Ricky

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do” may be great advice when trying to figure out proper etiquette for the dinner table; but, “when in Russia, do as the Russians do” is not always helpful, unless one is trying to blend in and not draw attention to oneself. In Russia, it is expected that when one is invited to dinner or other social occasions, one will join in the rounds of alcoholic drinks (principally vodka) served with or after the meal. “No thank you,” “I don’t drink,” “I don’t like it,” and even “It is against my religion,” are all socially unacceptable, rude, and is inferred that you are superior to your hosts. So, what is a teetotaler supposed to do in such circumstances? Ironically, “Sorry, I’m allergic” is a socially acceptable excuse, even though no one actually believes it. In fact, it may be the only acceptable excuse.

On a more personal level, I have many allergies of the common medical variety. Just like most people, I also have many non-medical type allergies. Among these are: liars, cheats, thieves, arsonists, bullies, megalomaniacs, violence-mongers, murderers, wars, drug dealers or pushers, and corporations with policies that are anti-social or destructive to individual or societal stability or are based upon greed.

On an even more personal level, at my current age, I am also allergic to: changing a baby’s dirty diapers, higher taxes, false friends, and physical labor. I feel an allergic reaction coming on from all this typing so I’m done.

© 4 November 2013

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Angels and Archangels by Phillip E. Hoyle

Save me from angels! They’re too fiercesome. Why even in the ancient Hebrew book Tobit, young Tobias’s guardian angel Raphael carried a sword. That angel was no sentimental Europeanized childhood protector but rather the leader of the angelic host, the army that surrounded the throne of the great Lord, God of Israel. Raphael served the one that no one could look upon and live. And then someone said of me that I was an angel—this after I’d lost my lover Michael to an AIDS related cancer. Of course, somewhat like Raphael did with Tobias I walked with Michael on his way to test after test at Denver Health, accompanied him during his chemotherapy sessions, picked him up from the floor when he fell, helped him to the restroom, cleaned up after him, loved him mightily during his rapid decline in health. I also sat with him while he died. Many things actually. That seemed simple love proffered to a beloved, not something magical or mystical; simple love mixed with profound responsibility.

When Michael’s friend told someone I was an angel, I’m sure the man meant something very sentimental. But mythological? I don’t know. At the time I was in no mood to be either kind of angel. I was angry at my loss and all too aware that my late arrival in Michael’s life journey saved his closest friends many, many hours of care giving. I was not going to be consoled by anyone’s guilty feelings or sincere intentions. And besides, I knew my journey into this love and my imperfect execution of love’s demands. I knew myself all too well. Spare me the blather.

Now we’re talking mythology here, but it always seems to get mixed up with sentimentality. I abhor that! Still I don’t know how to get beyond it to something more constructive. It’s always easier to criticize than to create something new.

A couple of years later I again got called an angel this time after the HIV-related death of my Rafael. His Mexican mom told his Puerto Rican social worker that I had been his angel in his last months. I’m sure he had dramatized for her just what we had going—probably with too many details for her comfort. He insisted that she understand our love. The case manager told me what she expressed. Somehow since the ascription occurred cross-culturally and from a devout Roman Catholic person, I could more easily accept it being assigned to me. For her to say so was a breakthrough of acceptance, one I knew her dying son demanded of her. She was strong in her love and although she didn’t say it directly to me, she did convey it through a third-party, a way of communicating much more Mexican than American. I realized I did serve somehow as a messenger of the divine love, acceptance, and care to a young man who had meant no harm, who had experienced too little love, and who had broken too many Mexican taboos in his too short life. My love for him, whom I found somehow beautiful enough to assign godly terms, made me happy to provide the divine service however it was perceived and interpreted by others.

Our affair was in so many ways perfectly divine—even in the ancient Judeo-Christian sense with the fearful God who sent fearful angelic troops to announce to freaked out shepherds that they were to receive a great joy, one for all humankind! Whatever my role, whether angel or shepherd, I was finally pleased—oh so pleased—to be in the middle of such a divine drama.

Some months after Rafael’s death I told the man who had irked me with his angelic name calling that I would not care to meet another man named for an archangel—no more Michaels or Raphaels for me. He smiled and with an arched eyebrow and sly grin asked, “Well, what if his name was, say, Lucifer? Could that get your attention?”

“Probably,” I admitted.

© 15 December 2014

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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Horseshoes for the Homeless by Pat Gourley

I have never had a horse in my life with shoes or without. I am aware of the game of horseshoes but this is something I have never played despite growing up on a farm. We never had horses and I never even got a pony for my birthday.

So the topic of shoes for horses is not something I can relate to at all. However, the topic of shoes for people and the feet that go into them are a frequent issue for the clients I find myself serving these days in the Urgent Care Clinic where I work.

Most folks coming into the clinic do no not have specific foot issues but two populations accessing care do. The first and larger group is the diabetics. Uncontrolled diabetes tends to affect not only circulation but in relation to one’s feet, sensation. Many diabetics often have numb feet having diminished or no feeling in their feet. This leads to bangs and bumps, to toes especially, that create small wounds they are unaware of and if not attended to can lead to big problems including infection which along with compromised circulation can eventually lead to amputation. Some of the best nursing advice out there is to look at your feet every day especially between the toes and the soles. If you can’t see down there get a friend to look for you or a small hand held mirror. If you have a friend to take a look you can also then guilt trip them into a bit of a foot rub maybe.

The other group that often has foot problems is the homeless and of course some of them are also diabetic. Living on the street or shelters if lucky often does not lend itself to good management of your blood sugars. This winter we have seen quite a few cases of frost bitten toes. Sometimes, if not too severe, this sort of resolves on its own but it can be bad enough that necrosis sets in and parts or sometimes-whole toes have to come off.

So perhaps one of the most useful interventions I can provide for homeless folks these days are dry socks. I am sure you have seen these hospital issue socks perhaps you have even worn a pair for a while. The current ones we have are grey or green with these raised horizontal racing stripes top and bottom I suppose to create some traction and prevent slips. If we have them I always prefer giving out the green ones, it really is a pretty shade of green.

One of my recent homeless foot issues involved a fellow with some rather significant frost bite that he had been neglecting and so in addition to some rather intense probably foot fungal odor I think there was bit of rotting flesh involved. The smell made my old nurse eyes water to say the least. I drew the short straw and got to try and get him to clean up his feet a bit before hitting the streets again. He was having none of it saying he had been at another hospital the night before and they had tried to clean up his feet and the pain was unbearable.

One technique is to use shaving cream on them, which can be less astringent than most soap. He was having none of that either. His plan was to get his check the next day and a
cheap hotel room where he could clean them up on his own. He wasn’t a shelter guy so the plan was to spend one more night outside. This was mid-week last week with temps in the single digits. The shoes and socks he had were of course wet despite the plastic bags he had lining them. He was definitely not going to part with the shoes which he said were very fine just wet. He did however take a pair of dry socks I gave him, green ones of course. This was the only part of our interaction that seemed to elicit genuine appreciation on his part.

These folks, during inclement weather, can spend the night in the waiting room once we have addressed as best we can whatever brought them in though most prefer to head out no matter what the weather. If they come in late in the day with some issue they feel can’t wait until the next morning they often then miss the cut-off time, usually early evening, to get into a shelter for the night.

So the topic of horseshoes made me thing of one more crazy-ass aspect of life in America in 2015 and that is that our horses often have better foot wear than our homeless. I might start carrying a dry pair of socks or two and on snowy, wet, cold days offer them to folks I encounter on the corner with their signs. A more useful gift than spare change perhaps. Maybe I can appropriate a few of the green pairs and hand them out some wintry nights on my walk home from work.

© March 2015

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Plumage by Nicholas

I like scarves. I like to wear them and I like seeing them worn by other people. Scarves are both fashionable and practical. They can provide warmth and protection against the elements on a cold, blustery day. They can also provide an elegant touch of color, a bit of flair with a swath of fabric flung around your neck and over a shoulder. And they can make statements about who you are and even what side you take.

I’m always surprised how much warmth a scarf can provide when wrapped around my neck on a winter’s day. It’s an extra layer of protection against the wind. It feels cozy and snuggly and shelters some exposed skin. The winter scarves I have are light wool and are burgundy and purple. They’re long enough to completely wrap them around me. I have another yellow scarf that my mother knitted for me years ago but I rarely wear it because I keep it more as a memento of her.

Scarves can also make statements—fashion statements and political statements. Scarves can be gay when a man wears one that is colorful and elegant. It can bring a feminine touch to your wardrobe. I wear a blue and gold silk scarf sometimes and I have a fuschia and black scarf that I wear just for decoration. The secret to always being fashionable, they say, is to accessorize. Scarves can be so gay.

Political statements are also made through scarves. Certain scarves in certain colors on certain days often convey symbolic political sentiments. I own a scarf that is checkered red and black which might be taken for a Middle Eastern keffiyeh, the checkered headdress worn by many Palestinians and adopted by some non-Palestinians as a gesture of solidarity. I didn’t buy it for that. In fact, the resemblance didn’t occur to me until much later when I realized there could be political overtones to my new fashion accessory. But then I doubt a Palestinian warrior would wear my pinkish-red scarf anywhere. It’s not their style.

My favorite scarves are not actually scarves at all but can be worn as such. They are these bright pieces of plumage from Renaissance Italy. These are actually flags or banners representing the different neighborhoods of Siena. Each banner—with different colors, animals (both mythical and real), wild patterns of stripes and daggers of color, and patron saints displayed—symbolically represents one of the 17 districts of the old medieval city.

These banners are used by neighborhood teams competing in the annual horse race, called the Palio, held since the 15th century (and still held) each summer in the huge piazza in the center of town. Of course, the three-day event is more than one horse race. Much pageantry and pomp goes along with it, including parades with these banners carried by people in equally flamboyant Renaissance costumes of tight leotards, puffy sleeves and very bright colors.

So, wearing a scarf can be more than putting on an accessory to highlight a color, more than showing your support for a sports team, and more than just bundling up against the cold. Scarves have become yet another way humans have concocted to say something in a world that might not be paying much attention anyway. A scarf is a flag to wave.

© April 2015

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Bumper Stickers by Lewis

My favorite bumper sticker has long been that classic example that combines humor, existentialism, and a zinger, all in one–“If you can read this, you are following too close.”

I thought I would try to come up with a list of “The 10 Bumper Stickers I Would Like to See but Haven’t”. Here they are, in no particular order:

* I thought World War II was fought so that I wouldn’t have to eat sushi.

* Police are no more racist than the rest of us but they have a license to kill.

* Have you noticed that when a Texan says “Bible” it sounds like “Babel”?

* Boxer shorts must have been invented by a woman.

* Phones seem to be getting smarter while people are getting stupider.

* I wish the Tea Party would “bag it”.

* Over the Hillary and “Into the Woods” to Elizabeth’s house I go.

* If gays are only 2% of the population, we must possess 98% of the “fabulous”.

* If climate change is not a threat because “God is still up there”, isn’t that what Noah thought?

* And, finally, Your two-year-old knows where your gun is hidden and he’s after it.

© 5 January 2015

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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When We’ve Brought Democracy to Iraq Can We Have Some Here? by Gillian

Bumperstickers, to me, are a kind of precursor of Facebook. I don’t partake in Facebook because my miserably puny ego cannot begin to imagine there is one person out there in cyberspace, let alone millions, remotely interested in what I did yesterday or what I think of today, or what I think of anything. Similarly, I assume that the people in the car behind me have little interest in who I voted, or plan to vote, for. Neither do they care that I want to free Tibet or Texas, am ALREADY AGAINST THE NEXT WAR or that my daughter is an honor student at Dingledum High.

It strikes me as a very strange, and I think almost uniquely American, need; this urge we seem to have to tell everyone around us such facts about ourselves. It’s only, what, three generations ago at the most, that no-one would dream of telling anyone how they voted – even if someone asked, which of course no one would. Now we apparently feel compelled to scream it to all those complete strangers who chance to glance at our car. I’m no psychologist but surely it must be all about ego? My candidate is better than yours. My causes are greater than yours. I am right and so, if you think differently, you are wrong. I’m a better parent than you, see, with my honor student daughter and my son who plays football for the Dingledum Dummies. And I proudly display a Dingledum University sticker, managing to imply even higher levels of success. I even have a better dog than you, as I proclaim BULLDOGS ARE THE BEST BREED.

Sadly, these things have now gone beyond simple proclamations. They are frequently derogatory, angry, and confrontational. That poor Honor Student particularly seems to attract attention, as in MY KID CAN BEAT UP YOUR HONOR STUDENT, or MY SON IS FIGHTING FOR THE FREEDOM OF YOUR HONOR STUDENT. No longer content with advertising how we vote, or don’t, we now have to add a comment. VOTE DEMOCRAT. IT’S EASIER THAN WORKING or VOTE REPUBLICAN FOR GOD, GUNS AND GUTS.

In our gun-crazy, polarized, society, I am constantly surprised that those kind of bumperstickers don’t engender more violence, and also those commanding that you HONK YOUR HORN IF YOU’VE FOUND JESUS, HONK IF YOU HATE OBAMA or HONK YOUR HORN IF YOU SUPPORT GUN CONTROL, the latter a clear invitation to be shot, if you ask me. Al Capone supposedly said that an armed society is a polite society but that doesn’t seem to hold for bumperstickers!

Some stickers, I have to say, are creative and funny. There’s little that cheers me up faster when I’m stuck in a traffic jam, than a good laugh at the bumpersticker in front of me. A WOMAN NEEDS A MAN LIKE A FISH NEEDS A BICYCLE is one of my favorites, along with TV IS GOODER THAN BOOKS and INVEST IN YOUR COUNTRY – BUY A CONGRESSMAN, and one most of us can relate to, INSIDE EVERY OLD PERSON IS A YOUNG PERSON WONDERING WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED.

I confess I have not always been totally immune to bumpersticker appeal. My car sported a U.S. NAVY sticker when my oldest stepson signed up, to be joined by U.S. MARINES SEMPER FI when my youngest went that direction. But that was simply to show my support to my stepsons, not to anyone else. Which of course is probably, in large part, the justification for all those honor student stickers. I only once succumbed to the political cause sticker, and that was in 1992 when I felt strongly enough about it to post VOTE NO ON AMENDMENT 2 on my bumper.

As I waited at a stop sign in Denver one day, another car pulled up close behind and a man with a tire iron in his fist jumped out. He ran at my car, yelling queer abuse, and brought the iron bar down just as the traffic cleared and I was able to gun the car forward. The blow broke the rear side window and I sped into the nearby King Soopers parking lot where I knew there would at least be a security guard. But the crazy guy didn’t follow, and that was the end of the incident.

And, call me coward if you like, it was also the end of my brief involvement with bumperstickers.

© January 2015

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.